


who tells your story

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5898349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Court appearances, missed penalties and the nature of belonging. Coda to the Valencia match.</p><blockquote>
  <p>There’s media there when you arrive, and you’re glad for the sunglasses as the flashes go off in your face. You almost frown; you hate it when they use flash, it washes you out, makes you look tired and worn. You’re 23, you shouldn’t look tired.<br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	who tells your story

**Author's Note:**

> This is not an apology or whatever. I don't know anything about tax evasion, but I know it's a bad thing. But there was this beautiful wonderful match yesterday and before that there was those photos of him at court and I was so afraid for him. So I started thinking and this happened.

 

 

You come home after lunch to meet up with your father and change into the clothes you picked out the night before. They’re chosen for comfort, not for impact, but they’re all brands, the fabric expensive and soft through your fingers, settling over your skin like armor. Each piece would have paid your bills for a whole month, way back when you were poor in Sao Paulo. Funny how these things turn around.

  
  


You walk into the kitchen and keep walking into your mother’s waiting embrace. She kisses your cheek, and looks you up and down, and you can see it in her eyes, ‘jeans for court, really?’,but she doesn’t say anything and neither do you. You drink a glass of water, because the club dietician stopped you in the morning to tell you to drink more so you won’t dehydrate as often. You had the feeling he wanted to ask you how you were doing, but didn’t know how.

  
  


Your sister isn’t there to see you off, but that’s alright. She’s had some obligations back in Brazil and you know there’s probably a text from her on your phone (on one of them, anyway), maybe ‘you’ll charm those judges, I know it’ and ‘I’m the only one who knows how much of a nerd your really are, Juninho’.

  
  


Davi’s with Carol today. It’s better like that. At least that way, he’s free of this stifling air of somber worry. You don’t want him to worry, not ever, but you know he does, even now, and you regret that more than you regret anything else in your life.

  
  


You head out the door, aware now of Barcelona traffic, and your father falls into step with you. Neither of you speak and you wonder if there’s anything he regrets (you know he does, he’s apologized multiple times, offered excuses and explanations you’d barely heard over the roaring of your blood in your ears). 

  
  


He puts his hand on your shoulder and you lean into it instinctively, trusting.

  
  


You drive to the court with the radio on, playing some Spanish hit single you’ll forget after it ends. You almost put on some Justin Bieber, but you like the new album too much to have it tainted with the memory of this. Through the window, people go about their daily lives and the sun is blinding, reflecting off smooth marble and chrome. You pull out your sunglasses. Right now, it’s high summer in Brazil, but you’re wearing long sleeves in Barcelona. It feels like you’re hiding.

  
  


There’s media there when you arrive, and you’re glad for the sunglasses as the flashes go off in your face. You almost frown; you hate it when they use flash, it washes you out, makes you look tired and worn. You’re 23, you shouldn’t look tired.

  
  


There’s other people there two; fans with your jersey on their backs, smiling hopefully. There’s a boy, a bit older than Davi, and you trace the words on his sign briefly, let them arrest the air in your lungs. You stop. To sign his shirt, or maybe to catch your breath.

  
  


_ Neymar, you are my friend _ , it says and you think, ‘Yes, I am,’ and ‘Maybe I don’t deserve to be’. You put your hand on his shoulder and squeeze briefly, watch him look up at you with adoration you’re probably never going to deserve.

  
  


Money was supposed make it all easier. Funny how these things turn out.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


The next day is matchday and you wake up with it already buzzing through the hollows of your bones, in the quickened beating of your heart. There’s no space for worry in the expanse of your chest, in the hot brittle air of your lungs. You breathe a brief prayer and check your instagram before you get up.

  
  


You meet up with Dani in the parking lot of the stadium. You don’t plan it like that, but it ends up happening.

  
  


“Joana says you looked handsome in your court appearance,” is the first thing he says to you, “I think I’m going to have to divorce her already.”

  
  


You laugh, and watch him glow with love when he speaks her name. It’s a good look for him.

  
  


“You aren’t even married,” you say, “and I won’t let you divorce a woman with such good taste.”

  
  


Later on, in the tunnel, you walk to stand with Leo and Luis. They’re discussing something, but Leo touches your hand and Luis wraps his arm around your waist, so you don’t feel like you need to participate. Instead, you watch your surroundings idly, note the chipping paint on one of the walls that wasn’t there last week.

  
  


Valencia’s English Mister passes you by, dressed in black and looking harried. There’s something wild in the glint of his eyes, in the dark shadows underneath them. You wonder if he’s ever been to the Camp Nou before, if he feels some of the awe you felt when you first walked down this tunnel.

  
  


You wonder, suddenly, if there’s anything he regrets.

  
  


Luis and Leo let you hold onto them as you walk down the stairs and you recite another prayer in your head, for their continued health and their quick feet, or maybe for yours. Sometimes, when you walk together like this, your cleats clicking in sync, there isn’t really any distinction. You don’t have many pre-match rituals, or at least not any that are that important, but you’re happy that they let you have this.

  
  


The referee’s whistle blows and the ball’s at your feet, and it’s like a something switches on in you, everything in bright color, and everyone is slow, too slow. It becomes quickly apparent that whatever plan Valencia had, it does nothing in the face of the three of you when you’re  _ on _ like this, when your backheel goes through Luis’s perfect dummy to land at Leo’s feet, when Andres and Busi keep feeding you perfect ball after perfect ball, and Arda fits with them like he’s played there forever.

  
  


You’re three goals up by added time. Then Mustafi brings down Leo in the box and you see red, but it’s okay; Leo gets up right after, shakes his head in annoyance. When he gets the ball for the penalty, he walks straight to Neymar.

  
  


“You take it,” he says to you and you blink at him, astonished every time he does this. 

  
  


You want to ask him if he’s sure, but you know he is, because Leo never says anything without being sure. Luis winks at you behind his back.

  
  


You put the ball on the grass, breathe in and take a few steps back. But as usual when things are quiet, when you have to stay still, you start to think. Not about the ball, or trajectory, or where Matty Ryan prefers to dive. You think, curiously, of that boy with the sign. You wonder if he’s watching.

  
  


You miss.

  
  


Leo pulls you in his arms afterwards and you briefly hide your face in his shoulder.

  
  


“I’m sorry,” you say. 

  
  


“That’s okay,” he says, “we’ll just keep passing it to you until you get it right.”

  
  


Like it’s that simple, and maybe for Leo it is.

  
  


You win by seven goals in the end, and Luis and Leo both offer you their match balls to sign. Luis must see the edge to your smile, because he rolls his eyes.

  
  


“You’ll score all seven next time, how’s that?” he says, but he’s smiling so you punch his shoulder and yell when he puts you in a headlock (you worked hard on that hair!).

  
  


You pull off your wet jersey, smoothing it out instead of throwing it in the washing baskets like you usually do. The material is smooth and synthetic underneath your fingers. There’s celebrations all around you and everyone is laughing. You think about belonging, and the nature of regret. About image. And then Geri bends over to pick something on the ground and his back looks like a great place to be.

  
  


So you jump.

 

 

 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Notes on the fic:  
> 1\. Neymar was called before a court in Barcelona to testify about alleged inconsistencies with his transfer to FC Barcelona on February 2nd, 2016. About a week before, Brazil authorities announced they would be prosecuting him for tax evasion. His father handles most of his finances.  
> 2\. The Valencia match happened February 3rd. We won 7:0, Leo scored a hattrick, Luis scored 4 goals. Neymar missed a penalty.  
> 3\. Valencia's English Mister is Gary Neville and he's been to the Camp Nou multiple times, most notably in 1999, when he won the Champions League with Manchester United. I don't know if Neymar knows that but let's pretend he doesn't.  
> 4\. Joana Sanz is Dani's fiancee and she's great.  
> 5\. I was totally listening to the Hamilton soundtrack when I wrote this.  
> 6\. Find me on [tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
